The door to the meeting room clicked shut behind me as I stepped inside, leading Tristan here. I could hear Tristan’s footsteps following me, the weight of the air in the room growing heavier with each step he took toward me. I hadn’t expected to confront Adele so directly, but once I had, I felt a strange sense of empowerment. I wasn’t going to let her—or anyone—treat me like I didn’t matter.
But now that the moment had passed, it felt like I was standing in another one. I hadn’t anticipated Tristan’s reaction when he stood up for me. I hadn’t expected him to step out of his usual comfort zone, to put himself on the line for me like that. I could still feel the weight of his words, the vulnerability in his eyes, even though he quickly shut it down. It wasn’t just Adele I had confronted today. It was Tristan too, in ways that I wasn’t ready for.
He wasn’t the same man he’d been before. But I couldn’t help feeling that he still wasn’t fully here with me. And that uncertainty gnawed at me.
I turned to face him as I stood in the middle of the empty meeting room. Tristan wasn’t looking at me, though. His back was to me, his eyes focused on the view outside the large windows. The city sprawled beneath us, a sea of people who couldn’t know what we were going through in this moment, not even if they tried.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, breaking the silence that had lingered between us. “For what you did. For standing up for me. I didn’t expect that.”
His shoulders stiffened, and I could see the muscles in his back tense. But he didn’t turn around. “I didn’t do it for you,” he replied, his voice colder than I expected. “I did it because I’m tired of people thinking they can just talk about you like that. It’s not about you and me. It’s about respect.”
I felt a sharp pain in my chest at his words. He couldn’t even acknowledge what we were, what had happened between us. He couldn’t even see it. It was always just about control, about making sure nobody crossed him. That’s all it ever was.
I stepped closer, trying to bridge the distance between us, trying to reach the part of him that I thought we were finally getting close to. “I know you don’t like to talk about this stuff, Tristan. But I can’t keep doing this if you don’t open up. If you don’t show me what’s really going on inside your head. I need more than just dominance. I need realness. I need vulnerability.”
I paused, letting my words sink in, but there was no response from him. He didn’t even acknowledge what I’d said. My frustration began to grow, and the hurt began to seep through the cracks of my control.
“I need you to show me the real you, Tristan,” I continued, the words flowing out before I could stop them. “The good and the bad. I can’t do this if you keep hiding behind your walls. I can’t keep pretending that this is just about power because it’s not. It’s about something else. It’s about us.” Still, he didn’t respond. The silence in the room stretched longer, and I could feel the tension, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us like a thick fog.
“You don’t get it,” I said, my voice tight with emotion. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not asking you to be something you’re not. But I can’t keep doing this dance, Tristan. I can’t keep pretending I don’t need more from you.”
Finally, he turned his head, but his eyes were empty, void of the passion or anger they once held. They were cold, distant, and they hurt. “You think you can handle the real me?” he asked, his tone laced with bitterness. I wasn’t sure how to answer him. I didn’t know how to get through to him, how to explain that all I wanted was honesty. But I couldn’t stop trying.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice softer now, quieter. “But I can’t keep doing this alone. You’re pushing me away, Tristan, and I can’t keep chasing after you. I need you to let me in. I need you to trust me.” His gaze hardened. I could feel the walls inside him rising, brick by brick, the distance between us expanding even further.
“I’m not going to do this,” he said, his voice low, almost detached. “I’m not going to sit here and tell you my problems. You want me to open up? Fine. I’m telling you now: I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be vulnerable with you. I don’t know how to give you what you want without ruining it. And I don’t know if I can.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep the lump in my throat from choking me. His words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I had hoped for more from him. I had hoped that, after everything we’d shared, he’d be ready to meet me halfway. But it seemed like he wasn’t. Not yet.
“I’m not asking you to fix everything,” I said, my voice shaky now, but resolute. “I’m just asking you to show me what’s real. Be real with me. And if you can’t do that, then we’re not going to get anywhere, Tristan.” He flinched, as if my words physically hit him. I saw it in his eyes—something shifted there. A flash of something I couldn’t quite identify. Something he didn’t want me to see.
But it was too late. I had already seen it.
I took a step back, my chest tight with frustration and confusion. I wanted him to come after me, to reach for me. I wanted him to let me in. But instead, he turned away, walking toward the window again, his back to me.
“I’m not ready for this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I can’t be what you want me to be. Not yet.”
I stood there for a moment, staring at his back, the distance between us widening. He wasn’t ready. I had hoped he might be, but he wasn’t. And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t either. But I couldn’t keep holding on if he wasn’t willing to meet me halfway.
I took a deep breath and turned toward the door. I knew I had to leave. Not because I was angry, but because I needed clarity. I needed him to take the time to figure out what he wanted. I couldn’t keep chasing after him, not when he wasn’t ready to let me in.
“I’ll give you time,” I said quietly, my voice steady now, but my heart pounding in my chest. “When you’re ready, when you can actually be real with me, you know where to find me.”
I reached for the door handle, but before I stepped out, I turned back one last time, meeting his eyes. There was nothing there—nothing but coldness.
And for the first time, I realized that I couldn’t force him to open up. I couldn’t make him do something he wasn’t ready for.
“I care for you, Tristan,” I said softly, walking out of the room and leaving him behind.